Shield of the People Read online

  Raves for the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:

  “[The Way of the Shield] is a political story, one which both demands and rewards your attention. It’s a personal story, dealing with pain, loss, heartbreak and forgiveness. It’s a story about morality, about sacrifice, about what people want from life. It’s a fun story—there’s quips, swordfights, chases through the streets. It’s a compelling, convincing work of fantasy, and a worthy addition to the rich tapestry that is the works of Maradaine. Pick it up, give it a try—you won’t be disappointed.”

  —Sci-Fi and Fantasy Reviews

  “Veranix is Batman, if Batman were a teenager and magically talented. . . . Action, adventure, and magic in a school setting will appeal to those who love Harry Potter and Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind.”

  —Library Journal (starred)

  “The perfect combination of urban fantasy, magic, and mystery.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Maresca’s debut is smart, fast, and engaging fantasy crime in the mold of Brent Weeks and Harry Harrison. Just perfect.”

  —Kat Richardson, national bestselling author of Revenant

  “Maresca offers something beyond the usual high fantasy fare, with a wealth of unique and well-rounded characters, a vivid setting, and complicatedly intertwined social issues that feel especially timely.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  DAW Books presents the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:

  Maradaine:

  THE THORN OF DENTONHILL

  THE ALCHEMY OF CHAOS

  THE IMPOSTERS OF AVENTIL

  *

  Maradaine Constabulary:

  A MURDER OF MAGES

  AN IMPORT OF INTRIGUE

  A PARLIAMENT OF BODIES

  *

  Streets of Maradaine:

  THE HOLVER ALLEY CREW

  LADY HENTERMAN’S WARDROBE

  THE FENMERE JOB*

  *

  Maradaine Elite:

  THE WAY OF THE SHIELD

  SHIELD OF THE PEOPLE

  PEOPLE OF THE CITY*

  *Coming soon from DAW

  Copyright © 2019 by Marshall Ryan Maresca.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Paul Young.

  Girl by Aleshyn Andrei / Shutterstock.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1837.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780756414788

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise for Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Also by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chronological Note

  Maps of the Archduchy

  Prologue: The Warrior

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Interlude: The Duchess

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Interlude: The Priest

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Interlude: The Parliamentarian

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Interlude: The Man of the People

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Interlude: The Lord

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Interlude: The Soldier

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Interlude: The Mage

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Interlude: The Justice

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Coda: The Lady

  Appendix

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Several years ago I had a vision for an interconnected series of books, following four sets of characters, who each have discrete, individual stories, but a larger story brews beneath the surface, each series bringing its own pieces of the puzzle.

  Back then, when it was still just ideas and outlines, I laid it all out to my dear old friend, Daniel J. Fawcett. And he said, “That’s fantastic, but for it to work, for you to be able to do what you want to do, you’re going to need the right editor and the right publisher.”

  Fortunately for me, Sheila Gilbert and DAW Books were very much the right editor and the right publisher. Were it not for Sheila and her astounding faith in this work and my big plan, we wouldn’t be here. Everyone at DAW and Penguin—Sheila, Betsy, Katie, Josh, Leah, Alexis, Lauren—have been fantastic partners on this endeavor.

  Much thanks also to another old friend, Brendan Gibbs, who helped lay the initial seeds behind Dayne, a hero who fights with his heart, who risks everything to keep people alive.

  Of course, there was also my two amazing beta readers, who saw this particular manuscript through a few revisions: Kevin Jewell and Miriam Robinson Gould. They have been there to help me make each book as strong as I can make it. My agent, Mike Kabongo, has been instrumental in making this big, mad plan happen.

  And finally, I could not have possibly done this without my family. My parents, Louis and Nancy Maresca, my mother-in-law Kateri Aragon, and most important my wife and son, Deidre and Nicholas. They’ve made all of this possible.

  CHRONOLOGICAL NOTE

  Shield of the People takes place in the last week of the month of Erescan, in the year 1215. It is approximately five weeks after the events of The Way of the Shield, a few days after Lady Henterman’s Wardrobe, and two months before the events of The Imposters of Aventil and A Parliament of Bodies.

  PROLOGUE: The Warrior

  LON ORREN, Grandmaster of the Tarian Order, had long since abandoned the idea that sleep would ever again be his friend. Too many compromises, too many deals with sinners, just to keep the Order alive and vibrant. He used to lie on
his bed in restless agony, but in recent months he had embraced his penance. He had devoted his life to the Tarian Order, he would give his life for it. The cost of his conscience was a small one.

  He had done what he had to, for the good of the Order. Nothing more. The Tarians would survive for a few more years, another generation, even. Maybe by then, people would understand their legacy again. Maybe by then, whoever succeeded him wouldn’t have to fight to keep the lamps lit.

  Maybe history would be kind to him and the legacy he left.

  He wandered the chapterhouse in the hours before dawn, the only creature awake, save the cats. Quiet as the mice those cats stalked, he went from floor to floor, glancing at his fellow Tarians as they slept. The upper barracks housed the newly arrived first-year Initiates, hopefully ready and eager to begin their training.

  This year there were forty-seven of them, which was an astounding number. Far more than had ever started in one year at the Maradaine Chapterhouse. It would be encouraging, except for the reasons behind that number. Most of the other chapterhouses had shuttered their Initiacy, and now the potential Tarians of tomorrow were being trained in only five cities across all of Druthal: Maradaine, Fencal, Vargox, Porvence, and Korifina.

  He shook his head. In the course of his lifetime there had been chapterhouses in cities all across Druthal, and Initiates trained in every one of them. Despite his best efforts, their legacy was slipping through his fingers.

  Since his best efforts had failed, he had to hope that his worst efforts would succeed.

  Four members of Parliament dead, and the city terrorized, and he had to accept that he was complicit in those actions. He may not have held the sword, but he didn’t raise any objection. When the other nine members of the Grand Ten said it must be done, he went along, because he needed those allies.

  Promises were made, and they were people with the power to shape those promises into reality. Nobles, members of Parliament, voices of authority. He was far and away the least notable of any of the Grand Ten. But, to be a Grand Ten, they needed a Warrior, and he was the one desperate enough, weak enough, to say yes. This group—this cabal—that he had joined, fancied that they had similar goals to the original Grand Ten from centuries ago. They formed themselves in a twisted mirror of those people, taking on their iconic titles. The Parliamentarian and The Man of the People. The Lord, The Lady, The Duchess. The Priest, The Soldier, The Justice, The Mage. And him, The Warrior.

  Orren knew that the Grand Ten of history had never been a unified group fighting together, but rather key people who had stepped up and done their part for a better nation.

  He knew his history, he knew about The Warrior of the original Grand Ten from two centuries ago. Oberon Micarum, the Spathian Adept who fought for Druthal’s freedom and unity, and who was instrumental in shaping the nation of today. Oberon had served as Regent for young Maradaine XI in those early years of Reunification. Oberon had guided the nation to free and modern principles, encouraging the formation of the Parliament and allowing the common man to have a voice in the nation. Oberon had been a great man.

  These people Orren had allied himself with were nothing like that. This was a skulking conspiracy, a plan to reinvent Druthal into the nation they wanted, with a man on the throne who suited their ends. But, as unsavory as their methods were, they were people with a vision, and that vision supposedly included the honor and tradition of the Tarian Order as a sacred part of the Druth spirit.

  It was all he had to keep that tradition alive.

  He stopped by the quarters of Dayne Heldrin. Dayne, that giant young man with an even larger heart, embodied that spirit more than any other person Orren had ever met. The boy was a Tarian, down to the marrow of his bones, Orren had no doubt.

  So much so, the boy had almost single-handedly undermined the Grand Ten’s machinations last month.

  No, that wasn’t fair.

  If anything, Dayne had saved them from their own ploys spiraling out of control. He had stopped the madman whom they had inadvertently launched on the city. Dayne, like the true Tarian he was, risked everything to take up his shield and protect the people, the Parliament, the nation.

  The poor boy was going to be punished for that. And so much more. Orren already knew that Dayne, now starting his third year as a Candidate for the Order, would never be inducted as an Adept. After his year of Candidacy ended, he would be cashiered out, left to the winds.

  Assuming he even made it through this year.

  Instructions had been given by the Grand Ten, and those instructions were to put Dayne on the path they wanted. Dayne and those close to him.

  If Dayne had had any idea he was being used as a pawn in this larger game, and the ends that game was working toward, he’d probably cut his own throat to prevent it.

  But he wouldn’t know. And he would do whatever Orren asked of him to keep alive the hope of becoming an Adept in the Tarian Order. Because he was a Tarian, true and pure, and that was the very thing Orren would be able to exploit in him.

  The poor boy.

  Orren sighed. Long days were ahead. Plans were underway.

  Chapter 1

  DAYNE HAD NEVER SEEN as many people in one place as were in the crowd surrounding the Saint Alexis Day parade. It was a massive celebratory event, as Great Maradaine Avenue was filled with marchers, riders, dancers, and musicians from all ten archduchies, and onlookers flooded the walkways, hung on lampposts, and found every other possible place they could to gawk from.

  People filled the avenue from the head of the Great Maradaine Bridge—where the parade started—to the massive street fair in Victory Plaza, where Great Maradaine Avenue intersected with Unity Street, Victory Lane, and Freeman Road. The whole plaza was overrun with food vendors, entertainers, music, dance, and merriment.

  Dayne found it delightful, a glorious way to launch Victory Days, the six-day celebration of the founding of Druthal in its modern form, starting today with Saint Alexis Day, continuing through the Revels of Liberation, and culminating on the actual Reunification Day at the end of the month.

  “I absolutely adore this,” Lady Mirianne Henson said. “There’s nothing quite like the spirit of the people, celebrating the nation, our unity, our liberation from tyrannical incursion.”

  Dayne noticed her sly smile. “You also like it because it suits your current enterprise.”

  “Of course it does, I’m not a fool,” she said. “Why do you think I scheduled the Grand Opening for today?”

  As much as Dayne delighted in the celebration, he felt a sense of unease. Lately, it seemed more and more people went about armed. There were quite a few folks with crossbows hanging on their hips, or swords at their belts, and that was just what he could see. No telling how many were carrying knives and knucklestuffers and handsticks. With this many people, it wouldn’t take much for a misunderstanding to turn heated, to escalate into violence. Watching from a balcony three stories above the plaza, there was nothing he could do to protect the people in the street should things turn ugly.

  Dayne did appreciate his view of the revelry in Victory Plaza from this vantage point, though. Lady Mirianne’s private office was on the top floor of her latest venture, and many of the people in the street were incredibly excited for the opportunity to be the very first customers of Henson’s Majestic, a store that promised to be an experience like none other.

  At least, that’s how Lady Mirianne had it promoted on the flyers she had printed and plastered all over the north side of the city.

  “My lady, are we just about ready?” Mister Sefferin, her general manager, waited in the doorway of her office, wringing his hands.

  She smiled and looked at Dayne, a warm twinkle in her eye. “Well, my dear, are we ready?” She certainly looked ready. She was dressed in a smart skirt suit—not dissimilar to the kind the professional women in shops and offices all over the city wore—but hers
was satin and silk, impeccably tailored, with intricate embroidery and clasps of ivory and gold. She had fashioned herself as a perfect union of noblewoman and businesswoman.

  “You and Mister Sefferin are far more qualified to answer that,” Dayne said. “Though I would like to be close to the polling station when you open doors.” He hoped she understood the responsibility, the sacred duty, she had taken on by making the store one of the polling stations in today’s election. She was focused on the store itself, and how hosting the polling station would help her, and he feared she wasn’t taking it seriously.

  He was also anxious to cast his vote. That was his own sacred duty, as a Druth citizen, far above and beyond his duties as a Candidate of the Tarian Order.

  “Yes,” she said. “Mister Sefferin, you do have the polling stations arranged, with manpower at the ready to guide folks back through the displays once they vote, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “And all the salespeople are versed in asking gentlemen to show their thumb to earn their good citizen discount.”

  “Excellent,” Lady Mirianne said. “I think we should open the doors in—”

  She held her thought for a moment, her attention returning to the street below. An announcer boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Royal First Irregulars!”

  “In just a few moments,” she said. “They’re about to do their routine, and all eyes will be on them. But I want those doors to fly open as soon as the performance ends.”

  She said this all without her eyes leaving the street below.

  “As you wish, my lady,” Sefferin said, scurrying away.

  Dayne had never heard of this group, which by its name sounded like an army unit. “What are the—”

  “The First Irregulars. They’re a parade and morale unit. But they are truly something.”

  She pointed down to the street, where ten women in uniforms were marching into the plaza. Dayne wasn’t quite sure what to make of them—their uniforms were essentially Druth Army uniforms, but they had been modified to display more bare skin than any practicality demanded. Far closer to stage show apparel than military—and not the kind of stage shows Dayne would attend.